Tag Archives: weight

She Feels

She feels disgusted when he looks

At her young women native body.

She feels his lurking brown eyes

Watching her every move, every breath.

 

She’d feel his gawking at her.

His stares make her feel uncomfortable

She feels tortured, trapped deep within.

He stands there in his silence.

 

She feels all of her imperfections

He is gleaming toward her flaws.

She feels her face turning red.

He is seeing every blemish.

 

She feels exposed, bare, and naked.

He can see her fat body.

She feels him judging her body.

He gazes at her constantly.

 

She feels ugly, gross, and revolting.

But he still won’t look away.

She feels hard-featured, appalling, and unsightly.

He keeps watching her every action.

 

She feels like she should leave

His stare is withholding her movements.

She feels bottled up and restricted.

His eyes, dark chocolate, brown eyes.

 

She feels the courage to look,

He looks deep into her eyes.

She feels hooks of his eyes.

He can see her million defects.

 

She feels his revolting facial features.

He can’t look at her anymore.

She feels relief when he forestall.

He can see who she is.

Fat

She can’t look in her mirror,

She can’t look at herself anymore.

She can’t look at her body,

She can’t look at her face.

She hates when her legs touch.

She hates when her stomach shows.

She hates when her arms move.

She hates when her butt’s bulging.

Her legs touch, shake while walking.

Her legs are dry and bleak.

Her legs are wide and thickset.

Her legs are stocky and stubby.

Her stomach is potbellied and husky.

Her stomach is jiggly and wiggly.

Her stomach is bulging and plumply.

Her stomach is oversized and swollen.

Her arms are roly-poly and blabby.

Her arms are fleshy and chunky.

Her arms are flabby and overabundance.

Her arms are blubber and beefy.

Her butt is lumpy and bumpy.

Her butt is irregular and uneven.

Her butt is stout and blucky.

Her butt is pudgy and hefty.

She grabs fat on inner thighs.

She pulls handfuls of her stomach.

She pinches her under arm flubber.

She squeezes her butt to smaller.

She stretches for smaller inner thighs.

She drinks tea for smaller stomach.

She exercises for smaller, thinner arms.

She walks for smaller, rounder butt.

Skinny

How many pounds? How many inches?

How many calories? How many fats?

How many candies? How many veggies?

How many?.. How many?.. How many..?

 

The questions go through her head.

In the morning, afternoon, and night.

She’s always thinking about not eating.

If she eats, that’s another calorie.

 

That’s another gram of body fat.

Another outfit she can’t fit into.

Another outfit she has destroyed again.

That’s another number on the scale.

 

Her notebook is filled with thinspirations.

Skinny girls, skinny foods, skinny tips.

Notes about getting small and skinny.

 

Learning how to eat or not.

What to eat to burn calories.

What to do instead of eating.

What to do to burn calories.

 

Things to do instead of eating.

Drawing, writing, painting, reading, or coloring.

Napping, bathing, doing hair, painting nails.

Walking, running, doing yoga, or fitness.

Not eating is easier than tracking.

Tracking is hard, tiring, and consuming.

Not eating is easier than fitness.

Tracking is hard, boring, and draining.

 

If she gets through a day,

One, single, empty day without eating,

It’s considered a good successful day.

 

To be skinny she has to

Skip a meal, avoid all foods.

To be skinny she has to

Do something other than eating foods.

 

To be skinny she has to

Drink zero calorie, zero sugar tea.

To be skinny she has to

Pretend to not be starving inside.

 

To be skinny means she’s pretty.

To be skinny means she’s confident.

To be skinny means she’s strong.

To be skinny means she’s brave.

 

How many pounds until she’s perfect?

How many calories does to burn?

How many more candies to avoid?

How many?.. How many?.. How many?..

The Weight

She sat outside in the dark.

Alone, with just her calming cigarettes.

And her music, listening to songs.

Songs that belonged to a playlist,

Called scars, a playlist she hears.

When she’s sad, depressed, and alone.

She stares up at the stars.

Stars that are her only light.

The ones that only care, listens.

Millions upon millions in the twilight.

But she still feels more alone.

The fresh cigarette smoke helps calm.

They’re her fresh air from sadness.

The sadness is heavy like rocks.

Rocks on her small, weak shoulders.

She doesn’t know what to do.

How to relieve the unbearable pain.

She wants to sit up straight,

But the weight is too much.

Her shoulders are sore, she’s sore.

The pain can’t be released alone.

But nobody is willing to help.

The weight’s too much for everyone.

She’s left alone to bear it,

Carrying throughout the days and nights.

The cigarette smoke helps her breath,

Underneath all the rock’s hard weight.

She doesn’t know how much longer,

How much more she can take.

She’s getting tired, worn out, weak.

Doesn’t know how to get out,

Out from underneath all the weight.